


Trenches

by commodorecliche



Series: Trenches [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Horror, Deep Sea, Deep Sea Divers, First Meetings, Gen, M/M, Mentions of Drowning, Ocean, Rig Divers, Science Fiction, Slight Violence, but not between characters - just from wildlife, for those that have trouble with that, it's not actual drowning though, it's via the bio mods keith has, kind of, zine fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 07:51:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13231290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche/pseuds/commodorecliche
Summary: The Romanche Trench is a desolate and harsh place. It takes a certain kind of person to be able to live in one of the most isolated parts of the Earth, but it’s the life Keith chose. As a deep sea diver, he has been biologically modified to withstand the hostile environment as he helps maintain a research rig at the bottom of the Atlantic ocean. When his unmodified crewmates must return to the surface for decompression, a new diver named Shiro is sent to the rig to help him. Faced with another human who has chosen the same desolate life as he, Keith must come to terms with the fact that he may have missed human company more than he believed and that Shiro may be just as starved as he is.





	Trenches

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited to finally get to share this! This is the fic I wrote for the APHELION zine.

 

 ****The persistent beeping of the Romanche Rig’s intercom system is one of the best alarm clocks Keith has ever had. It’s loud, shrill, and intrusive enough to wake even the soundest sleeper. Lord knows he needs it, too. Deep below the ocean’s surface, all they have is artificial light and vitamin supplements to help keep them on a regular sleep cycle.

Time doesn’t exist down here—not really, not the same way it does on the surface.

The PA system continues to chime; Keith keeps his eyes shut as he sits up, his motions slow and purposeful. His hand moves to his side and his fingers clutch at the oblong scar that travels the expanse of his ribs, trying to ease the tugging tightness of the skin around it.

It aches more every day.

_“All crew, please report to conference room A for morning briefing. Please acknowledge.”_

Pidge’s voice sounds tired, even as it crackles across the intercom—they’re all tired when they’re down here, it just comes with the territory. There isn’t exactly a lot of normalcy to be found four and a half miles underwater. The intercom beeps again, and Keith finally pries his eyes open. The external lids open first, followed gingerly by the second set. They peel back like a film, gradually adjusting his eyes to the light.

 _“Keith, please acknowledge the previous announcement,”_ Pidge commands.

“Acknowledged, be there in a minute,” Keith grates back as he flings his legs over the side of his bunk. With a deep breath, he stands and slips on his diveskin as quickly as his tired body will allow.

*******

His crewmates are already in the conference room when he arrives. Keith takes a seat across from Pidge and makes a point of avoiding all their gazes. He fights the urge to close his secondary eyelids—to put up a barrier between him and their stares. He opts to blink them instead.

Lance’s face contorts in disgust.

“Christ, do you have to blink those milky things at me?”

“It’s not like you don’t know I have them,” Keith quips back.

“Doesn’t make them any less creepy, dude.”

“Enough,” Pidge chastises, changing the subject.

“All right, updates. We’re ahead of schedule for our sample collection and analysis. The Garrison seems pleased about it, too. Coran said we do need to get a few more biological samples, if possible, but otherwise we are ahead of where they expected us to be. Allura also said that Hunk, Lance, and I are due for annual decompression. So in a couple of weeks, a sub’s gonna come get the three of us and take us back topside.”

“How long’s decompression supposed to take?” Lance inquires.

“Coran said it’ll be twelve to fourteen weeks before we’re cleared to come back down. Keith, obviously since you don’t need decompression, you’ll be staying down here to keep up with maintenance. On the plus side, Allura said that they finally found someone willing to be our second diver. So Keith, you’ll actually have some help around here.”

Keith chuckles. It’s forced, but he feels like it’s a normal enough reaction.

“Good, cause lord knows y’alll aren’t any help.”

“Well, we can’t all be Frankenstein,” Hunk deadpans.

Keith pauses and looks at him. In the back of his mind, Keith knows Hunk doesn’t mean it as an insult, but the unspoken implication of Keith’s ghoulishness is there nonetheless. Keith doesn’t acknowledge the comment, swallows whatever insecurity he feels, and turns his attention back to Pidge.

“Did she give any details about who they got?”

Pidge shakes her head.

“Not many. His name is Takashi Shirogane, goes by _Shiro_ , 22 years old, fully-equipped diver. The plan is for him to come down a couple weeks before our departure, we’ll get him accustomed to the rig, make sure he can handle everything, and then we’ll head out once he’s settled.”

“He a rookie or something?” Keith asks.

“She didn’t say, but I doubt it. I mean, he could be... But ya know, most rookies aren’t exactly clamoring to get down here.”

“Hell, _most people_ aren't. Except Keith,” Lance scoffs, his voice heavy with sarcasm. It’s another jab that only distances Keith further from his crewmates.

Keith bites his tongue but doesn’t speak. Instead, he lets his secondary lids slip closed, walling himself off from his crewmates, if only for a moment. He can see through their milky whiteness, but knows that the rest of his crew can’t and the less they see of him, the better, Keith figures.

Pidge senses the tension in the air, and changes the subject as gracefully as she can.

“Keith, you’re checking bulkheads today, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, take Rover when you go out and keep your comms open.”

*******

Keith stands in the airlock and tries not to think about his crewmates’ earlier comments. That sort of attitude is par for the course, at this point. He hits the release valve for the airlock and braces for the influx of water that’s about to come. Rover hovers patiently at his side. Keith knows that this process doesn’t bother the damn machine: why would it? But for Keith, it’s agony every time: a solid two minutes where his body believes that it’s drowning.

No one told him when he took this job that the abyss would swallow his breath every time he had to go to work.  

The room begins to depressurize with a sharp hiss, and his lungs follow suit. He exhales and steels himself: he can feel the weight of the ocean outside, aching to burst in. The intake ports in the bay open and water begins to creep into the room—it’s slow at first, but it rises faster with every passing second. Once the water is up to his waist, the cells of his diveskin begin to adjust and compensate for the sudden temperature change. It clings to his skin like paint and he can feel every fiber changing. The water continues to rise, and the diveskin shifts and expands between his toes and fingers to form artificial webbings.

When the water is up to his chest, the port on his side begins to open—Keith prepares himself to drown.

The first rush of seawater stings like a motherfucker. It burns his insides as it floods through his body. His artificial lung kicks into gear, adjusting and overpowering his other lung’s breathing capacity. His second lung is barely biological anymore, but it's still more human than the other. It fills with water and suffocates while the artificial lung tries to remind Keith’s mind that he isn’t dying. His brain is only human though.

Once his head is underwater, the nictitating membranes under his primary eyelids take over. They sheath his eyes in milky whiteness and adjust their translucency to match that of the water.

It only takes a moment, but it feels like a goddamn eternity, before his body realizes that he hasn’t actually drowned. Keith can feel the machinations of the artificial lung whirring in his chest. It filters the ocean water as it flows through his body, and extracts its oxygen so his body can function. The pressure of the water around him is close to uncomfortable—it’s only the adjustments the Garrison made to his bones and organs that ensure his body doesn’t turn to jelly beneath the immense weight of the ocean.

With his eyes adjusted beneath the milky membranes, Keith peers through the water to find Rover. The gizmo floats beside him now; its ports are covered and small propellers are poised at its sides so it can move through the water.

Keith taps at his ear to check his comm.

“Pidge, do you read?” he asks. His voice sounds broken, uneven—a consequence of the mechanical device installed on his vocal cords to allow him to speak despite the water coursing through his body.

“I read you. Proceed.”

The bay doors open and Keith sees nothing but the vast, empty darkness of the open ocean. If it weren’t for his lids and the modest headlamp on his head, there would be nothing but blackness to greet him. Blackness and God knows what else that lives in the abyss. Keith doesn’t wait for Rover; he pushes himself out of the bay and into the nothingness that lies beyond.

His headlamp is of little help, illuminating only a narrow beam of light directly ahead of him. Keith wonders for an instant if it makes him more vulnerable to have it on than to have it off.

 _Does it make it easier for you to see me?_ He silently asks all the creatures he can’t see, but that he knows are with him in the darkness. Watching him, assessing him, wondering why he’s there.

The bottom of the ocean is its own universe, really. You get far enough beneath the surface, far enough from light and air and humanity, and you’re met with a realm that exists on its own plane. Dark enough that the water no longer looks blue, cold enough that he would freeze were it not for the protective skin he wears, but hot enough in the vents that line the trench that they could boil him alive if he weren’t paying attention.

And the life, God, the life. It’s awe-inspiring. Incomprehensibly oppressive with its twinkling lights, its enormity, its bony, determined teeth, and its resilience to the harshest environments it could find. Sometimes it’s simpler to say _here, there be monsters,_ than to address the practical reality of their logic-defying existence.

And somehow, with the inhuman instruments in his body, Keith feels right at home here.

Keith swims along the edges of the station, investigating the bulkheads and hulls, looking for anything that might indicate damage. The larger creatures are drawn to the station’s lights, convinced they’re nothing but a quick meal in the darkness. They ram the hulls, bite at the lights, aching for any sort of nourishment they think they might get. The bleak metal walls can do nothing but bow and try to withstand the unmitigated force of desperate animals.

It takes Keith four hours to make it to around the exterior perimeter of the station, but he’s relieved to see that everything appears stable and intact. He rests one hand on the hull and taps at his ear again.

“Pidge, everything looks fine out here. I’m heading back.”

“Roger that; what’s your ETA?”

“Ten minutes or so.”

Keith plants his hand and foot on the hull of the rig and propels himself back toward airlock. Not even two feet away from the hull, Keith’s passage is cut off as a massive flash of pale silver and white whips through the water before him. He reels back and spins in the water to check all his sides. Aside from the bits of marine snow that glimmer in the faint beam of his headlamp and Rover’s bright panel lights, he sees nothing.

Keith pauses, floating still for a moment—he knows that if something is around and checking them out, it would likely return for a second inspection. But it doesn’t come. The water is black and still around them, and he hears nothing more than the usual hum and groan of the ocean floor. Keith waits for only a few more minutes before kicking his legs and propelling himself back towards the airlock bay, Rover whirring at his side.

The swim is quiet for a few moments—but that’s the thing about the ocean. Here, there be monsters, and the quietest devils can rage out of the silence. The strike happens in a flash. Before Keith can even register what’s happened, a hard, scaly body collides with his own. It doesn’t take long before he hears the distinct sound of crunching metal echo and screech through the water. He twists in the water from the force of the collision, but it only takes him a second to realize that, although it had hit him, the fish isn’t concerned with him. Instead, the metallic screech he hears is the sound of the thing’s jaws clenching around Rover. It’s the damn bot's lights—it’s always the fucking lights. He’s been telling Pidge for ages that she needs to dim them down, but she never gets around to it.

The beast slams Rover into the side of the rig—the gong of metal-on-metal traverses the water and undoubtedly penetrates the hull enough that his crewmates inside are sure to have heard it. Within an instant, Pidge is in his ear asking what happened.

“A goddamn viperfish got Rover. I’m going after it.”

“Keith, no,” Hunk instructs in his earpiece. “Leave it and return to the rig _now_.”

“It’ll damage the hull if it keeps this up,” Keith insists, already swimming towards the fish with knife brandished. The creature gnashes its teeth around Rover and thrashes its head, scraping and slamming the droid against the hull.

“Keith, _leave it_ and return to the airlock,” Hunk orders.

“Uh-oh, you’re breaking up, sorry,” Keith tells them and switches off his comm before Pidge or Hunk can even say “but”. He’s really only disappointed that he couldn’t make his reply sound sarcastic—the voice box implants prevent tonal changes in his voice whenever he’s underwater.

As he draws closer, Keith can see that the beast is big. Everything is big down here, but this viperfish is big enough to nearly engulf Rover in its jaws completely. What it can’t fit, it slams against the hull to try and break apart. Its long, pale body wriggles, glistening in soft beam of Keith’s headlamp, scales shining with every thrash. Keith is sure that it’s realized by now that Rover isn’t a meal, and is merely continuing its assault out of frustration. Food in the depths is hard to come by—when the creatures fight, they fight hard, desperate for any scraps they think they might find.

Keith only kills it because he has to; this aspect of the deep sea landscape has never been his favorite. Raw, violent, and dark in a way that only the open abyss can be. With the beast’s focus on Rover, he manages to swing his shot hard and with precision to perfectly penetrate its scaly flesh. He plunges the knife into the animal’s side, right into the sweet spot behind the gills. The viperfish thrashes again, its body colliding with Keith’s in its death throes, before going still. Keith wrenches the knife from its side and uses it to pry open its jaws; he grabs what’s left of Rover and swims back to the airlock before something even bigger decides to investigate the fresh carcass he’s left behind as chum.

Once he’s back inside the airlock, Keith hesitates for a moment before initiating the draining and re-pressurizing process. The water flooding out of his body is always just as miserable as the water rushing in, and to top it off, he knows he’s got a hefty lecture from his crewmates waiting for him. He never turned his comm back on earlier.

It’s against protocol, and he knows that, but the salvaged Rover sitting on the floor beside him is justification enough for it.

The ports on his sides release the water they’d been filtering, draining his body in time with the room. With one hand braced against the wall to support himself, Keith coughs up the remaining seawater as his lungs kick back into biological gear and relearn to breathe.

It’s like being born.

The door clangs open as soon as the room is re-pressurized. His crewmates filter in; Hunk and Lance wordlessly collect the mangled droid off the floor as Pidge approaches Keith.

Keith gives a final heave, spits out the last bits of salt water, before straightening his back and looking down at Pidge. He keeps his membranous lids closed, keeps his eyes whited out to deter her gaze from his—it works. She turns her head away from him and watches as Hunk and Lance carry Rover out of the airlock without so much as a word to Keith.

Pidge sighs. Her shoulders slump, and she turns her gaze back to him. He knows she can’t see his eyes, but it doesn’t stop her from trying.

“Why... on _Earth_ would you do that?” She asks.

Keith coughs and gestures idly in the direction of the other team members as they haul the droid away.

“It could’ve damaged the hull. Plus, couldn’t let a Rover go to waste.”  

“You went against protocol,” she tells him, her voice tight. “You know damn well comms are to be kept on at all times during a dive.”

“I know, but—” Pidge doesn’t let him finish.

“When comms are off, you go dark on us. We can’t talk to you, can’t hear you, damn well can’t see you, and we can’t track your vitals. If you turn your comms off, we can’t tell if something happens to you.”

“Well, I couldn’t focus if y’all were just gonna be prattling in my ear.”

“Keith, we can replace a Rover... Can’t replace you.”

 _‘That’s not true_ ,’ Keith thinks instinctively. ‘ _The only reason I’m down here is because I’m expendable. Every diver is.’_

“Sometimes you have to trust your teammates, Keith. I'm not reporting it... this time. But do _not_ let that happen again.”

Pidge leaves on that instruction, leaving Keith alone in the bay.                  

*******

The body modifications that come with being a diver, while useful for the environment of the Romanche Trench, don’t make day to day life easy. Diveskins, made to adhere to the wearer’s flesh, are hard to get on and off; enough so that sometimes Keith opts to stay in it for most of the day. Secondary eyelids can be cumbersome out of water. And Keith’s body aches from every mechanical implant the Garrison gave him, every scar he wears. However, some things are a little easier with the mods. He swims faster. Sees better. And underwater welding is a cinch when your diveskin can withstand high temperatures.

There aren’t a lot of perks of being a diver. The pay is good, but the price is high, and every modification he has reminds him of that.

He hardly feels human sometimes. The quiet of the deep sea is nice—but it's isolating and sometimes he wishes someone else understood.

Keith has almost finished the repairs on the southwest corridor. About a week ago, a colossal squid had taken special interest in the metal siding. It grappled at the hull, rammed its beak into the sides hard enough to gash the shell of the rig. The sidings are quadruple reinforced; but if left unattended, the damage would only get worse.

Attacks like that happen with decent frequency down here. Sometimes he wonders if the creatures attack because they’re desperate and hungry, or simply because they’re curious as to what wonders might lie beyond their reach.

Repairs alone are a lot for one diver to manage.

Keith is conceptually aware of how long he’s been working—three and a half hours now—but he wonders what the actual time is. It’s not like he can look up at the position of the sun to figure it out: they’re way too deep in the ocean for that. Looking up, all he sees is organic snow and the bioluminescing predators and prey as they signal in the darkness. He tries not to think about their presence too much—one could go mad thinking about what all _might_ be out there.

If the abyss wants you, it’ll find you.

After a few more minutes, Keith glances up again. He pauses his torch as his eyes lock on something he hasn’t seen in ages. Off in the distance, a submarine is steadily descending towards the rig.

It must be the drop off vessel for the new diver. Keith knew it would be coming eventually, but without a solid sense of time, it’s easy to lose track. A couple weeks must have already passed—a short enough amount of time to miss.

His eyes linger on the sub, watching as it docks, and he’s sure any minute now someone is going to page him and tell him to come back in to meet the new guy.

In the back of his mind, he wonders what kind of person would ever volunteer for placement on the Romanche Rig. Or _any_ rig, for that matter.

But who was he to talk? After all, _he’d_ volunteered to come down here.

A few moments pass before Keith hears the expected crackle of static in his ear piece.

“Keith, it’s Lance. New guy’s here, Pidge wants you to head back in for briefing.”

Keith doesn’t reply. With his repairs finished, he can either go back as he’s been commanded or stall. He opts for the latter.

“Back in a few, I gotta finish up here.”

“Roger.”

The static goes silent. Blowtorch still in hand but doing nothing, Keith watches the sub detach from the rig and begin its miles-long ascent back to the surface. He flips his headlamp off and drifts in the darkness.

*******

Back in the airlock, Keith takes his time draining and re-pressurizing the room. His crewmates are in the conference room waiting for him, but he isn’t ready to be social just yet. He wonders what kind of person this new guy will be. Getting used to Pidge, Hunk, and Lance was one thing—they’re researchers, not divers. Keith had quickly come to terms with the fact that, for the most part, they weren’t going to understand him; they wouldn’t relate to the daily strain his body endured, wouldn’t comprehend the welcoming, dismal isolation of the abyss. And that was okay. Their job down here wasn’t to understand or to relate to him, and Keith has more than accepted that.

He’s Frankensteinian to them—someone they work with and need, but a monster nonetheless.

Another diver is different.

Isolation, Keith understands. The lonely, empty call of the void, Keith understands.

Another human who chose this life? Keith hopes, but doesn’t know, that he’ll understand that.

Trust is hard to come by in the deepest pits of the world... No matter how much he might crave it.

The room finishes re-pressurizing and Keith coughs up the last few drops of seawater lingering in his chest. He straightens himself out, steels himself, and prepares to meet the newcomer.

He keeps his diveskin on, keeps his secondary eyelids closed.

Just in case.

*******

The new guy is the first thing Keith sees when he walks into the conference room. He stands out like a beacon in the grey, metal room. A confident figure amongst the crew, their eyes are laser-focused on him in admiration—a look Keith has never won from them. The door hisses closed behind him, and within an instant, the new guy cranes his head around to meet Keith’s gaze.

Keith notes immediately that he can see this guy’s eyes; his lids are open, and he’s not wearing a diveskin. If he didn’t already, Keith suddenly feels like the odd man out.

The new guy’s lips are curved into a bright, cheery smile as he turns to face him fully—he’s open and ready to be welcomed. Keith can tell he’s never had trouble making friends.

“Keith, glad you’re here,” Pidge says, moving to stand beside the newcomer, who’s already offering his hand in greeting. “This is our new diver, Shiro. Shiro, this is Keith.”

“Great to meet you,” Shiro says, hand still extended.

Keith takes his hand and takes him in.

He’s tall, broad shouldered, and toned with olive skin. Has the sun kissed it recently or is it naturally that color? It’s hard to tell. He’s got a bright smile, a tuft of white hair to match, and a body that’s littered with scars. Keith wonders why he isn’t wearing his diveskin.  

 _Because not everyone wears it all the time like you_ , he thinks. 

Keith meets his eyes, tawny and warm, and knows it must be jarring for Shiro to have to stare back at the milky white membranes that cover Keith’s own. But he doesn’t open them; he needs the barrier between them.

Just looking at him, Keith knows that, were their circumstances different, Shiro is the type of man Keith would be attracted to. In a different time, a different place, back when he was still part of the real world. But things are different down here, and the earthly comfort of another human being isn’t a luxury the abyss allows.

Keith gives Shiro’s hand a quick shake and realizes suddenly that it’s a prosthetic; Shiro’s entire right arm is prosthetic. He hadn’t noticed at first touch—the membrane of the diveskin takes a couple seconds to adjust to the sensation of new materials. The arm itself appears to be high quality—it doesn’t look like a standard Garrison prosthetic. Keith says nothing despite his curiosity—he’s not rude enough to ask—he keeps his face placid, and tells Shiro it’s good to meet him too.

“Looks like we’ll be seeing a lot of each other,” Shiro says, smile never faltering.

“Yup,” Keith replies with a curt nod.  

Pidge cuts in once she realizes Keith isn’t going to say anything else.

“Um, so over the next couple weeks Keith will get you oriented to the rig, make sure you’re accustomed to everything and feeling at home, so to speak, before Hunk, Lance, and I go back topside.”

“Sounds great.”

“Keith, did you have anything you wanna show him today, or you wanna wait till tomorrow?”

He shakes his head; there isn’t much left to be done for the day, plus he doesn’t feel like babysitting. He’s tired.

“I have reports to finish. We’ll start tomorrow,”

“It’s a date,” Shiro quips lightly. Keith knows he’s trying to be friendly—he’s still smiling, albeit not as widely now.

Keith shoots them both a nod, but says nothing before turning on his heels and leaving.

He only makes it a few paces down the hall before the conversation in the conference room resumes, not even waiting until he’s out of earshot.

 _“He’s quiet,”_ Shiro notes.

_“Yeah, he is.”_

_“He’s just weird, dude,”_ Lance chimes in gruffly. Keith’s jaw tightens a little, fingers curling into a fist. There’s a brief pause, before Shiro speaks again.

_“No... I think he’s nice. We’ll get on fine.”_

Keith cranes his head a little back towards the conference room, but doesn’t hear anything else. He has to wonder what makes Shiro sure of that.

*******

True to his word, Keith shows Shiro around the very next morning.

It feels odd—having to orient someone to a rig Keith knows like the back of his hand. Maybe he’s been down here too long. To his surprise, Shiro takes it in with little instruction. He learns the layout of the rig within a few hours and seems to already have a general understanding of their duties. He doesn’t have many questions and understands everything Keith tells him with ease.

Shiro was a rig diver long before he came to the Romanche Trench, Keith’s sure of it. But that’s a fact that Shiro, for whatever reason, hasn’t willingly shared with him.

Keith doesn’t know if that bothers him or not.

Shiro actually tells him very little as far as personal details are concerned. But his distance is masked by his overt friendliness, and Keith catches onto the guise quickly.

He wants to be friends, to build up the appearance of companionship and camaraderie, but he doesn’t want Keith too close.

Keith understands. He can’t say that if the situation were reversed, he wouldn’t act the same.

But still, there’s a part of him, however small it is, that had actually been hoping he might find a companion in Shiro.

Or at least find someone who understands.

That sort of thing is silly to hope for down here, though, and Keith tries not to think about those desires too much. A crewmate is necessary; a companion isn’t.

Over the next few weeks, they tend to their duties without issue. They maintain the rig, make sure the carbon dioxide scrubbers and pressure stabilizers are in good condition, and gather a few extra samples for Pidge, Lance, and Hunk before they depart for the surface.

It’s ritualistic and easy, and Keith appreciates it. But by the time his crewmates have departed, he feels no closer to Shiro than he had the day he’d met him. Not that he’d expected to—but he’d figured Shiro would've pressed for his companionship more, judging by his behavior when they’d first met.

But he hasn’t.

It’s nice having him around—Keith’s certainly glad for the extra help—but it’s like working with a ghost. They live side-by-side like parallel lines—running together but never crossing.

He should be grateful. He can’t understand why it feels so off.

Maybe he’d wanted to relate. Maybe he’d hoped to have someone who might understand him—someone to connect to after years of desolate isolation. But he and Shiro seem so different—Shiro confident and calm, Keith reserved and willful. The two of them should trust each other, but even after a few weeks, Keith doesn’t know the first thing about this man.

He’s attractive, he’s skilled, he’s kind and helpful, and he’s very, _very_ far away from Keith.

And it bothers him.

He can’t help but wonder if things would’ve been different had they met somewhere else. Another time, another life. Who knows?

But he doesn’t have time to wonder about that down here. If Shiro wants to keep him at arm’s length, then at arm’s length Keith will remain.

*******

Keith wakes to the sound of an alarm—red and glaring in the midnight hours. He jerks up in bed, ignoring the pain in his chest, and flings the covers off, rushing out of his cabin. When he gets to the control room, Shiro’s already there, shirtless, body half-covered in his diveskin, bathed in the blinking red lights as he investigates the alerts filtering across the screens.

“CO2 scrubber’s fucked,” Shiro huffs, and Keith is already yanking up the rest of his diveskin, readying himself to go out.  

“Which one?”

“The satellite one—350 meters from the airlock.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Valve failure.”

Keith doesn’t respond. He nods to himself and turns on his heels, already headed out of the control room and down to the airlock to proceed with repairs. Behind him, he hears Shiro let out a low sigh.

“Easy fix, but we need to wait. The thermal vent’s acti—” Shiro starts, but stops short as he notices Keith leaving the room.

“Keith!” Shiro yells after him, running to catch up with him. “Shit, wait!”

“You _cannot_ go out yet,” Shiro tells him firmly. Keith scoffs, not bothering to stop as Shiro trots beside him.

“Why? We have to fix it _now_. We suffocate without it and the rig depressurizes, so let’s go.”

Shiro stops him in his tracks with a firm grip on his arm.

“ _No_ . That scrubber is right by the vent, and it’s _active_ right now,” Shiro’s words are commanding, but Keith doesn’t miss the tension in his tone or the concerned look on his face. “That means the water’s hot. There’s a shit ton of nutrients, so there’s gonna be a shit ton of feeding. Every big animal and their mother will be out right now lookin’ for a meal, and you’re gonna be on the menu if you go out.”

“I can deal with a fish or two,” Keith snaps, yanking his arm out of Shiro’s grip. “We need to fix it.”

“We _need_ to wait until the vent calms down, then we can—”

“Fine,” Keith cuts him off, “You stay here, safe from the fish. I’m gonna do my job.”

With that, Keith continues towards the airlock, yanking up the rest of his diveskin and closing his secondary lids. He can just barely hear Shiro swear behind him before pacing after him. By the time he reaches the bay, Shiro has caught back up to him. He slips into the airlock right behind Keith and helps him close the heavy, metal door behind them.

Keith gathers up a tool bag, attaches it to a spare Rover, and moves to stand beside Shiro by the exit port. Shiro sighs.

“This is stupid,” He mutters to himself before flinging his hand out and pressing the trigger for depressurization to begin. The room hisses and the water begins to seep it. As it covers their feet and ankles, Shiro lets out a quiet chuckle. “When you die, I’m gonna document that I _strongly_ advised against this.”

Keith can’t help the laugh that bubbles from his lips.

“You can take that up with my corpse afterward, deal?”

Shiro smacks his arm, and tries to hide his smirk.

“Deal.”

The water is up to their ribs and rising faster before he knows it. Over the steady hiss and gurgle of the water around them, Keith just barely hears Shiro speak again. His voice is soft this time, more vulnerable than Keith has heard it since he’s been there.

“I hate this part,” Shiro closes his eyes, steeling himself. “It’s like drowning.”

Keith glances at Shiro, meeting his teammate’s lid-covered gaze, and nods his understanding. Maybe Shiro is more like him than he’d thought.

The ports on their sides open, the water filters into their body. They breathe their last gasp of air as the water rises over their heads.

It’s amazing how quiet the world gets when your head is underwater. It takes a moment for their lids to adjust to the sudden darkness, but when they do Keith immediately finds Shiro’s gaze. Ahead of them, the bay doors open, revealing the blackness of the ocean that lies ahead of them. They don’t have far to go but the further away from the rig they get, the more danger they’re in. And Keith knows it.

He won’t admit it now, not so soon after their spat in the hall, but he’s glad that Shiro decided to come. An extra body means extra help, extra protection—he just hopes he can trust that Shiro has his back.

They exit the bay and swim into the pitch, measly headlamps helping guide them to the scrubber on the edge of the rig. The Rover swims behind them, dragging their tools along with it. The world around them is silent as it always is, save for the occasional gurgling and shifting of the water and ocean floor, but Keith knows better than to get complacent here.

Even with their lids, there isn’t much they can see in the blackness of the abyss, but every flash of movement or rush of water gets his attention. A part of him yearns to switch his headlamp off to make himself invisible to the things that live along the craggy edges of the Romanche Gap. But he can’t. He’ll need it to make their repairs. And despite his confidence earlier, he wants nothing more than to get in and get out with this fix.

Beside him, Keith hears Shiro’s robotic voice from their vocalizers crackling through the water.

“Up ahead.”

Keith nods.

“Temps will be hot,” Shiro continues, “diveskin should hold it off, but let’s finish quickly.”

Keith nods again and wordlessly propels himself ahead of Shiro with a hard kick of his legs. The Rover follows suit, surging behind Keith with their tools.

The temperature change hits him like a wall. It would boil him alive if not for the mechanized skin he’s wearing to protect him from the damage. But he can’t stay in it long. Shiro, as much as Keith hates to admit it, had a point about the vents. It’s hot to them, but it's rich in nutrients and all the things that live down here thrive in it. The smaller critters come to feed, and the bigger ones come for the smaller ones. Every minute they’re out here is another minute where an eel or a viperfish or an anglerfish can size them up and strike.

He reaches the scrubber without issue—the metal of its siding is hot to the touch, but not unbearable. Keith fumbles along its edge, searching around for the central valve he knows is near the bottom. The fix itself shouldn’t take long.

He makes quick work of it—exchanging the parts as best he can to get the damn thing functional again. Shiro hovers nearby, knife at the ready, and on the lookout.

It only takes a moment before Keith hears Shiro’s first exclamation.

“Shit!” Shiro shouts, Keith whips his head up to look in his direction. He looks for the tell-tale sign of Shiro’s headlight, but doesn’t see it.

“Shiro?!” He asks frantically into the darkness.

“I’m here! Had to turn off my lamp. We’ve got an eel; big one, too. Seven feet, maybe bigger. Hurry up and look sharp!”

Keith immediately turns back to his work, thinking every second about the glaring, bright light atop his head, alerting every animal in the vicinity to his presence. But he can’t focus on that. He focuses on the scrubber, fits a new seal on it and tightens the valve back down. He turns back to Rover and tosses the tools back in bag, looking again for Shiro in the darkness.

“Shiro, I’m done, let’s g-ughff!”

His words are cut off by a blunt force pounding against his midsection. Keith doesn’t see much of whatever’s hit him, just glints of shining black and silver as it thrashes. He thinks it’s an eel, but it could honestly be anything—there are more than enough creatures alive down here big enough to inflict bodily damage on a human.

He expects the force of the hit to ease, but it doesn’t. And it takes Keith a moment to realize that the creature isn’t just hitting him: the damn thing’s got ahold of him. Its jaws are wrapped firmly around his middle. Its teeth can’t pierce the reinforced diveskin, but the pressure on his abdomen hurts like a motherfucker, every thrash of the animal’s head snaps pain throughout his body.

Keith fumbles for the knife at his side, but he can’t reach it. The movements of the animal’s shaking head too drastic, too violent.

 _Shiro, where the fuck are you?_ Keith thinks to himself. He should be here to help by now.

In his desperation, Keith opts for fists. He slams punches into the eel’s slender, powerful body as hard as he can, but it doesn’t help. If it anything, it makes it angrier. It shakes its head harder, trying like hell to sink its teeth into Keith’s flesh. He hits it again and again, to no avail, and if he’s honest he can’t even really blame the thing. It’s just hungry.

His chest hurts, his stomach hurts; it shakes him and clenches harder, and Keith can feel his vision blacking it out.

There’s a moment of blissful quiet before it's interrupted by the distant sound of someone shouting his name.

_“Keith!”_

The animal shaking him stops for a moment, and Keith forces his eyes open.

“Keith, hang on!”

It’s Shiro—flailing against this creature blade first. Shiro grips the eel hard, stabs the knife into its side—Keith loses count of how many times. The eel seizes at first, tightens its jaws before its biteforce loosens: not enough to allow Keith to swim free, but enough to ease the pain. Shiro’s arm swings down again, delivering blow after blow into the animal’s sides and gills.

There’s blood in the water, and in the back of Keith’s head, he knows they need to get back to the airlock before other animals come to investigate.

Keith feels Shiro’s hands digging around his middle and between the eel’s jaws, forcefully prying them open and freeing him. As soon as he’s free, he tries to swim, but every kick is agony. Shiro is on him in an instant, an arm wrapped around his middle, Keith’s arm slung over his shoulders as he swims the two of them back to the airlock.

“I’m... okay,” Keith forces out, but Shiro says nothing. He simply swims harder, dragging Keith back to the rig.

Before Keith knows it, they’re back in the bay. The water is draining, and he’s hacking up the remnants of seawater leftover in his lungs. Shiro doesn’t let him go though. He holds him as the two of them cough out the ocean, he helps Keith every step of the way as they leave the airlock and head to the medbay. With Keith’s arm slung over his shoulder, Shiro gets him onto one of the exam tables to investigate his injuries.

Keith lets him. Breathing hurts. But then again, with a metal lung pumping away in his chest, breathing always hurts. Is this injury really all that different?

“Thank you,” Keith grits out, but Shiro doesn’t acknowledge it.

“That was reckless, I _knew_ it was reckless,” Shiro mutters frantically. Keith can’t tell if he’s scolding Keith or himself. There’s a quiver in his voice as he helps peel down Keith’s diveskin to reveal the bare flesh of his chest.

The eel’s teeth didn’t break skin, but Keith knows it’s got to be bruising. The awful blackened-purple mark that’s forming across his side is glaring, and Keith is amazed it doesn’t hurt worse. Shiro’s hands are rushed as they try to tend to him—concerned, overbearing—Keith brushes them away.

“I said, _thank you_ ,” Keith punctuates, using every ounce of energy he has to speak, “but it had to be fixed.”

“It wasn’t safe, and now you’re injured.” Keith thinks he hears a quake of vulnerability in Shiro’s words, and that stings deeper than his wounds. “You should have _listened_ to me, should have trusted me when I sai—”

“Why the hell should I trust you?!” Keith blurts out before he can stop himself. “I don’t even know you.”

Shiro stops his movements and leans away from Keith. He stares down at him with furrowed brow, and if Keith knew him any better, he’d say that Shiro looks almost angry... or hurt. Or both.

“I saved your life.”

“And I said thank you.” Keith hops off the exam table and shoves past Shiro. He does his best to ignore the pain. He just needs to get some pain patches and a couple injections and he’ll be just fine. He clutches his arm around his side in a poor attempt to protect his tender flesh as he moves. Shiro tries to put a gentle hand on his shoulder as he limps past, but Keith shakes him off.

“Keith,” Shiro starts as Keith makes it to the doorway, but Keith doesn’t let him finish.

“No,” Keith says, turning around in the doorway. “Why should I trust you?  I don’t know a goddamn thing about you: who you are, where you’ve been, why you’re fucking _here_ . Or, hell, even where you got that arm. That isn’t a standard Garrison modification. You aren’t new to this. You’ve been in the trenches for a lot longer than you pretend you have. And if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. I’m used to that shit down here. But _don’t_ expect me to trust you.”

Shiro doesn’t reply, but Keith didn’t really give him a chance to anyway. He snags a couple pain patches and a healing injection off the counter and limps back to his quarters, leaving Shiro alone in the medbay.

*******

It’s hours before Keith hears so much as a rustle from Shiro. He isn’t sure if that surprises him or not.

He’s had time to rest, to recuperate, to allow the medicine he’d so shakily injected into his damaged musculature to work and mend his body. Part of him wants to believe that Shiro has left him alone just so he could heal. And for that, he supposes he’s thankful.

But there’s a niggling tug in the pit of his stomach that almost wishes Shiro might come talk to him.

Perhaps it was too much to hope that Shiro would be as open as he’d first presented himself to be.

He doesn’t know Shiro—but he’d like to. He can’t even explain why he wants it.

Human company is by far a luxury Keith has learned to live without—even before he’d elected to leave the surface world. But the desire is still there, that urge to share a space with someone who might understand him, someone who understands what the darkest parts of the deep are like.

The desire for someone who understands the raw, honest destruction that exists down here is always there.

He doesn’t _need_ the comfort of another human being—his time spent with Pidge, Hunk, and Lance has more than demonstrated that he gets by just fine without it. But a part of him still wants it.

Keith lets out a low breath and turns over on his mattress, curling his body more tightly into itself, hoping for the ache to go away.

When Shiro comes to him, it’s well past midnight. Or at least, that’s what the clock says.

Shiro doesn’t announce himself: the hiss of Keith’s door does it for him. Keith doesn’t look at him, but knows he’s simply standing in the open doorway, probably debating if he should say something.

Moments pass without a word, and Keith is about ready to demand that he leave when Shiro finally speaks.

“I was on another rig about three years ago,” Shiro whispers from the doorway. Keith doesn’t respond, doesn’t even turn to face him. Shiro continues nonetheless. “The Mariana Rig.”

 _That_ gets Keith’s attention. He lifts his head to glance over his shoulder, before rolling onto his other side to face the doorway.

Shiro’s not wearing his diveskin anymore—he’s in a tanktop and sweatpants—which is jarring enough on its own. Keith hadn’t bothered to change, still shirtless with his diveskin bunched around his waist from where Shiro had tugged it down to investigate his wounds just hours before.

Keith doesn’t mean to, but he stares at Shiro. It’s strange to see him dressed so casually. His scars are prominent against his skin—the mangled tissue where his prosthetic meets the flesh of his arm stands in stark contrast to his normal, olive skin tone.

But he’s beautiful. And in that moment of vulnerability, Keith realizes just how detached he’s been from people these past few years.

Keith shakes his head, focusing his attention back on what Shiro said.

“Wait, Mariana?” Keith asks, pushing himself up to sit. Shiro nods.

Keith remembers that station: sunken beneath the waves, planted down in the deepest trench of the ocean. He remembers the onslaught of news that had followed its demise. He remembers wondering why the hell the Garrison had thought _that_ trench was the best location for their first rig.

“That... that rig went critical,” Keith says, shaking his head, brow furrowed. “Everyone died...”

Shiro nods again, more solemn this time.

“Everyone but me.” Shiro leans his weight against the metal door frame. There’s a crack of vulnerability in Shiro’s voice, one that Keith is unaccustomed to. Since his arrival, Shiro has been all smiles and confidence and reassuring tones—a natural-born leader. To hear this softness now is jarring, but not unwelcomed. It’s the sound of someone who’s worn a mask for far too long—and Keith can understand that.

“I was young—one of the first divers in the Garrison program. _Mariana_ was the Garrison’s first fully operational rig,” Shiro continues. “And unfortunately, first runs are... trials runs: things always go wrong. Publicly, the Garrison said that the structure had been compromised. Really, they just hadn’t anticipated how oppressive the ocean could be. The design wasn’t as sophisticated, the walls weren’t reinforced the way they are now, not nearly as resilient as newer rigs... And if the ocean wants in, it’s gonna get in.”

Shiro heaves a sigh, and Keith wonders if he’s supposed to say something. If he is, he doesn’t get a chance to as Shiro continues.

“When the rig collapsed, I was on a dive... Ironically enough, doing structural maintenance... It happened in an instant: the rig groaned, creaked, and down it went: collapsed in a cloud of silt and debris. I got hit with god knows what—rebars, metal fragments careening out into the ocean and into me. Cut my diveskin, cut me to pieces; a support beam hit my arm—sliced it open to the bone right across the bicep. Broke it too, I think. Hard to remember... Another piece hit my face—right across my nose...”

Shiro gestures idly to the pink scar that crosses his face, and Keith immediately thinks of all the other scars that litter Shiro’s body. He thinks of the glaring, metal prosthetic that rests at Shiro’s side.

“It was chaos,” Shiro says, “I tried to swim away, but couldn’t see where I was going. My lids protected my eyes, but they couldn’t compensate until the dust settled. I don’t even know how I got to a safe distance...”

Shiro takes another hesitant step into Keith’s room.

“When things finally settled, I tried to look for my crewmates... but I knew none of them could’ve survived. I was the only diver... and anybody inside the rig would’ve been crushed immediately anyway... But I still looked. I looked for as long as I could, but found nothing. And I couldn’t stay. My diveskin was fucked. The pressure, the temp, if I stayed, I was gonna die... I had nowhere to go but up.

“I don’t even know how long it took; seven miles is a long way to swim. I was bleeding... delirious from pain and dehydration... I lost my arm on the way up, somewhere between the bottom and the top.” Shiro’s face is calm, but the quiver in his voice gives away his vulnerability, “I don’t know what got it, or when. Shark, if I had to guess, but it could’ve been anything...  At some point you just stop registering pain, and suddenly you look down and your busted arm isn’t there anymore... It’s just a bloody stump...”

Shiro pauses, staring off into the middle distance and clenching the fist of his prosthetic.

“The Garrison found me topside; I’d drifted about a mile. They said I was almost dead—missing an arm, bleeding out. It’s amazing I survived. They stabilized me, gave me a nice prosthetic, and let me recover.”

Keith knows he shouldn’t say anything, but he can’t stop himself.

“Why would you _ever_ come back down here after that?”

The silence grows between them. Shiro smiles weakly and shrugs, voice tight in his throat.

“Where else is there for people like us?”

Keith meets Shiro’s gaze; there’s a wet sincerity there that twists Keith’s gut into knots. Suddenly, Keith understands the mask Shiro has worn. This is a broken man, someone trying to pick up the pieces of who he is in the only place he feels like he belongs.

Just like him.

“It took a long time to convince the Garrison to let me come back down, to be stationed on another rig,” Shiro tells him. “They were worried it would be oppressive or triggering to come back. But... this is one of the only places I ever felt at home.”

“In a dark hell?” Keith asks him, an uncomfortable chuckle on his breath. Shiro bites his lip and nods his agreement.

He takes another step closer to where Keith sits on his bed.

“It’s hard down here,” Shiro says. “Every time we go out, it’s like drowning. It takes its toll. I don’t sleep much. But you forget what it’s _like_ up top... how noisy, how oppressive, how fake and _pointless_ it all is up there.”

Keith barely remembers the surface anymore, he’s been down in the depths for god knows how long now. He can’t even remember the last time he saw natural sunlight.

But he remembers the way the surface felt—desolate, removed, aching with a profound sense of loneliness despite always swarming with people. The surface is alienation for creatures like him, the monsters who would ever choose to forgo their biology and trade it in for metal lungs, fake eyelids, and Frankensteinian modifications just to earn a living.

At least down here, they’ve chosen their isolation.

“I wanted to be on a rig again because I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else,” Shiro says, and for the first real time since Shiro has been here, Keith feels like he understands. “And I think... somewhere inside, I thought that if I could get back down here... maybe I could do better. Maybe I could do better for another crew, like I couldn’t before.”

Keith says nothing, but shifts his body over a bit on his mattress. Ignoring the dull ache in his still-healing abdomen—he pats the open spot beside him: a silent invitation for Shiro to sit down if he wants to. It takes Shiro a moment, but he eventually nods and lowers himself down next to Keith.

Their shoulders touch—flesh to flesh—and neither of them move away.

“Keith... I’m sorry,” Shiro whispers after a few quiet moments. “I shouldn’t have lectured you. Because you were right... The scrubber _had_ to be fixed—you did what was best for the rig.”

Keith nods a shallow agreement, staring down at his feet.

“But,” Shiro continues, “I was right too: it was _dangerous_ to go out. I was trying to do what was best for us... For _you_. Because I wanted to keep you safe... And you got hurt because I couldn’t protect you...”

Shiro drags a hand through his hair.

Keith doesn’t reply, but he leans his body a little more heavily against Shiro’s shoulder.

How long has it been since he’s had real human contact like this?

“We need to learn that we can trust each other, Keith. I should’ve been more open with you. I’m sorry that I wasn’t, but I _promise_ I will be in the future.”

Shiro mirrors Keith’s movements, tilting his body a bit more firmly into Keith’s shoulder. And Keith thinks that maybe Shiro has been just as touch-starved as he has.

“Keith, we have two jobs down here: keep the rig going, and keep each other alive. And we can’t do either if we don’t trust each other. I want to trust you... I want _you_ to trust _me_... So.” Shiro stops for a beat. “Can we do that?”

Keith cranes his neck and stares at Shiro for a long second. When Shiro meets his gaze, all he can do is focus on Shiro’s tawny eyes—open and welcoming. He lingers on them, knowing full-well that his milky-white lids are still closed, and he decides in that instant to bare himself.

“I’m not like the others,” Shiro continues, staying focused on Keith’s face. “Pidge... Hunk and Lance... they don’t understand this place like we do. They don’t know what it’s like to live like we do; they never will. They care... but they don’t understand. So _trust_ me when I say I _do_ understand... We’re not that different.”

Keith licks his lips and, in a gesture he knows he can’t take back, he peels back his secondary eyelids, revealing the violet of his irises to Shiro for the first time.

Shiro holds his gaze, the corners of his lips curve up in a soft smile.

“They’re... _bright_ ,” Shiro tells him, keeping his gaze focused on Keith, shaking his head softly as he speaks. “I didn’t expect that.”

Keith furrows his brow—it’s been ages since someone else has seen his eyes.

“They’re beautiful.” Shiro’s voice is low, quiet under his breath. He leans in as he speaks, as if he wants only Keith to hear him. “Can we be open with each other?”

Keith nods. He pauses for a moment before speaking into the silence.

“I’m from Texas.”

It’s a pointless fact, but one Keith had never bothered to tell any crewmate before.

Shiro bares his teeth in a breathless laugh, and lifts his hand to pat Keith’s cheek. It’s surprising, even to Keith, exactly how welcomed Shiro’s touch is against his face.

“That explains the accent.”

“Come on, it’s not that bad,” Keith protests, unable to hold back the smile that’s snuck its way onto his lips.

He notes that Shiro’s hasn’t lowered his hand; the curve of his palm and fingers are still cradling the camber of Keith’s jawline. Keith isn’t ready to tell him to stop. Instead, he catches himself leaning into Shiro’s palm.

How touch-starved has he been all these years?

Shiro drags his thumb across the pale flesh of Keith’s cheek.

Keith tries not to think as they sit together, tries instead to simply relish in the sensation of another human being. A human being as broken as he, who bears the same scars, the same fears, the same weight of the world as he does. He doesn’t mean to, but he angles his body a bit more towards Shiro, lifting his hand and letting it rest on Shiro’s bicep—right where flesh meets the metal of his prosthetic.

It’s just as warm as the rest of his body. He’d expected it to be cold—everything’s cold down here. Its warmth is a welcomed change.

“Can we look out for each other?”

Keith realizes then how close they are. Even in the dim cabin lights, he can see the freckles that span Shiro’s cheeks; they’re faint, washed out from a lack of sun, but he loves the sight of them. They remind him of something warm, like Texas heat in summer.

Keith nods again.

“Trust each other?”

Shiro’s prosthetic hand lifts to touch his other cheek. Its touch is mechanical, but still decidedly human, and the comfort the embrace brings is almost too much. Keith nods into his hands.

“Yes.”

There’s more Keith wants to say, but he can’t think of it. His body acts for him, tentatively closing the distance between them.

Shiro’s lips are chapped but soft. He tastes of salt; Keith knows he does too. They taste like the ocean that courses through their bodies. Shiro’s touch is warm, and for an instant, Keith is reminded of what the surface used to feel like.

Welcoming. Grounded.

Temperate and calm, Shiro’s kiss reminds Keith of the sun.

He wonders if his does the same for Shiro.

*******

Shiro stays the night with him. They sleep next to one another—chaste—if only to remind each other of the comfort human touch can bring.

When they wake, Shiro tends to his injuries. They’re all but healed now, but the pain still lingers, and Shiro knows that. Medicine works wonders but pain takes longer to fade. Keith knows it should dissipate eventually, or it will become yet another ache to add to the litany he feels day to day—from stretching scar tissue, to artificial organs.

But maybe, just maybe, it will fade. Lost in the warmth of Shiro’s concern.

Little changes in their day to day life—they maintain the rig, make their meals, sleep, and tend to repairs as necessary. They stare the blackened abyss in the face, only this time side-by-side.

Is it love? Doubtful. At least not yet. There’s a lot they have to learn still. Is it trust? Possibly.

It’s _something_ , at least.

Something resembling understanding. Something substantial. Something they can hold onto in the empty, black nothingness of the open ocean.

It’s a hell of a lot more than Keith has ever had. And something tells him that it’s a hell of a lot more than Shiro’s ever had either.

The earthly comfort of another human being isn’t something the abyss allows, but Keith figures he’ll hang onto it while he can.

*******

**Author's Note:**

> This was an AU I had really been wanting to write for quite a while - inspired by one of my favorite sci-fi books - and I finally got the chance to do so for this zine. Working with a word cap is always such a challenge, especially for a bigger AU like this, but I had such a great time writing this and I really hope you guys enjoyed reading it! 
> 
> If you liked it, please consider leaving a comment! I thrive on your thoughts. Thanks for reading, y'all!
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](https://commodorecliche.tumblr.com) and on [twitter](https://twitter.com/commodorecliche).


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